


Mirror, Sword, and Shield

by lttledcve, spinncr



Series: Valar Dohaeris [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Time Travel, Well - Freeform, animal cruelty, breakfast with Cersei, but eventually, graphic depiction of how ortolans are cooked, not this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-25 15:56:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19748974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lttledcve/pseuds/lttledcve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/pseuds/spinncr
Summary: “Perhaps the little bird sung out of turn,” Cersei muses, her voice musical and all the more chilling for it. “Perhaps,” she says, eyes traveling from her twin to Sansa, though it’s clear she’s talking to him. Warning him. “–little songbirds should be careful not to speak out of turn, and not to fly where there are more dangerous creatures waiting to strike.”***Sansa and Jaime face their first test in King's Landing, served warm with breakfast.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third work in a series, and will probably not make sense without the first, so we recommend reading that one first.
> 
> Once again, this is an RP thread being posted to AO3, which means that the POVs will alternate back and forth, and the timing of things like reactions and dialogue is slightly delayed between each POV switch. This style of writing/reading is not for everyone, and we get that. If that's not your thing, neither is this fic! 
> 
> ***IMPORTANT NOTE*** This chapter contains graphic depictions of animal cruelty involving the preparation and consumption of Ortolans, a real bird, and a real dish that is now banned in France. If you find animal cruelty triggering, please skip this installment. This scene is 100% inspired by NBC Hannibal, and if that isn't a warning in and of itself, I don't know what is. Practice self-care please!

**_j a i m e:_ **

“How beautiful you look, Little Dove,” his sister cooed, as Sansa arrived at the terrace where Cersei was breaking her fast. She’d summoned Sansa, which wouldn’t have alarmed Jaime overly much—both he and Sansa were well aware Cersei wanted the betrothal to Joffrey, with a fervency neither could account for—if not for the smirk she had graced him with as she did so, the caress of his cheek that had raised the hair of his neck. Cersei hadn’t tried to touch him, had actively shunned him in fact, since the moment he had rejected her advances after her wedding. Even when he had tried to comfort her after her first miscarriage, she had rebuffed him, launching vases at him and scratching at his face. 

Coming back, waking up here, in this time, knowing what she had become, what she had  _ done,  _ to Sansa, to him… It had made him sick, and yet, even so, he had hated to see her in pain, and so alone. 

Sometimes he wonders if his rejection had only brought her madness on sooner. 

It’s been years of this, of loving and hating and fearing his sister, of tense disquiet and disgust, wondering what she would do to punish him. And now there is Sansa, and the period of unknowing, he fears, has passed. 

He stands in the background, his back to the wall, eyes forward, trying to achieve that state of unseeing he had perfected long ago in the days of Aerys. But he can’t not see the tension in his wife’s shoulders, the flatness of her politely interested expression.

“Come, take a seat right beside me. You’re so gracious for such a young thing. Your mother and septa must be so proud of you.” He doesn’t look at her, positive Cersei is somehow having him watched, evaluated, but inwardly he seethes. She’s not just  _ gracious,  _ not even  _ young.  _ Cersei has no idea of the game she’s playing, but Jaime is confident Sansa can outwit her. 

Their only obstacle is that Cersei is queen, and Sansa is but thirteen years old, at least, so she seems. Cersei has power neither of them can possibly wield. The only thing they have is foreknowledge, but it’ll have to be enough. 

“You know my brother, I believe? Come Jaime, greet our guest.” 

Inwardly, he sighs, braces himself for whatever game this is to be. “Your Grace,” he says, first acknowledging her command. He won’t give her any opening. “My lady, a pleasure,” he says with little more than a dip of his chin, but his eyes dart to hers. He tries to offer her his comfort, his strength, but he’s afraid all she will see is his fear. 

**_s a n s a:_ **

The invitation is long overdue, and there’s nothing to do but accept it. Anything else could be seen as an insult, and she can’t afford to generate Cersei’s displeasure. Not in this, and not yet. So she takes time to make sure everything is impeccable. Sansa takes extra time in the dress she chooses, and particularly in the way she styles her hair. She keeps some of the Southron style, a small compliment to the Queen that lacks the outright admiration and adoration she had once had and tried to secure from Cersei Lannister. The twists of her braids is that of the North, and Sansa takes strength from what little of her home she can find. If she cannot remain in the North, in Winterfell, she will not forget who she is and where she comes from. 

None of it stops the thousands of questions that are swirling around in her mind in anticipation. She doesn’t know what Cersei wants from her, not yet. She’s not the traitor’s daughter, no longer the key to the North trapped in King’s Landing while everyone else is left to figure out what to do with her, who she will marry, if she will live. Her father’s head is still firmly attached at the neck, King Robert is alive and there has been no talk - at least amongst the Starks- about the paternity status of the Queen’s children. 

She is granted entrance onto the Queen’s terrace and Sansa smiles prettily when greeted, no matter how much she wants to grind her teeth. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She curtsies low, as manners demand, and if she’s noticed, or is even surprised by her husband’s presence in the room she gives nothing away. 

The great game has begun with neither of them truly ready for it, and Sansa crosses the room to the proffered seat with her back straight, her head held tall. She is the Lady of Winterfell again, and no one, not even Cersei Lannister, will take that from her. 

Her cheeks flush simply because they must at the Queen’s compliment. Cersei expects a little girl, she expects a  _ little dove _ ready to sing her sweet songs. “You’re too kind, Your Grace.” And she sits next to the woman, the very woman she had wished to never see again. The very woman who she had nearly begged her husband to not go back to King’s Landing for—no matter how honorable his intentions were. 

The very woman that had finally, successfully, managed to kill her. 

Tully blue eyes flicker towards the Knight in the room, her  _ husband _ , and in this she must be precise. “We’ve met, Your Grace, in Winterfell.” And she turns towards her husband with nothing but a polite smile. “It's nice to see you again, Ser Jaime.” 

She knows him. Knows him better than anyone, and she wants to comfort him. She wants to tell him not to worry, but no words can be spoken. No looks can be given, not without Cersei capitalizing on it. No, she must swallow her fear and push back any hesitation. If this is why they were brought back, they must not waste their chance. 

She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell. She is his wife, and she will be strong enough for both of them. 

So she tilts her body towards the Queen, and folds her hands neatly in her lap. “You asked to see me, Your Grace?” And she steers the conversation away from her husband, and back towards herself. 

**_j a i m e:_ **

He imagines it would be invisible to anyone else looking at her, anyone who hadn’t grown to love her when she’d had the weight of worlds on her shoulder, who hadn’t seen the way she crumbled when no one was looking, then watched as she pulled herself together and became the  _ Lady of Winterfell  _ again _ ,  _ all in the same breath. 

He had seen it though, and he knows what it looks like. It’s the way she turns to greet him without even a flicker of familiarity in her gaze, the way she sits so precisely and proper—but not  _ too  _ proper, she’s only a girl after all—the way she doesn’t quite simper, but hovers on the edge, a little girl taking her breakfast with a queen, just like in the songs. 

It makes him sick. 

He wants to fall to his knees in front of her, beg her forgiveness for subjecting her to this, for being too weak to kill his sister twice. He wants to tell her that he had done it, in the end, even though it had killed them both. He had done it, and every ounce of will it had taken him, had all belonged to her. But he can’t do that, so instead he says a succinct  _ “likewise” _ and returns to his job, protecting the life of the woman he’s already killed once. The woman he’s fairly certain he’ll have a hand in ending this time around as well, no matter how much he just wants it all to  _ go away.  _ They can’t give Cersei anything, nothing at all. 

“So formal. Aren’t her manners lovely, brother?” Cersei says, smiling at Sansa like she’s a precious little doll. There’s a reason she’s doing this. She likes to pretend he doesn’t exist unless she’s trying to hurt him somehow. The only reason to bring Sansa into it is if she’s somehow gleaned that hurting Sansa is the best way to hurt him. 

Fuck. 

“Quite, Your Grace,” he replies stoically. With Aerys, he’d go away inside, just drift back to Casterly Rock in his mind, hear the waves trying to eat away at the cliff faces, roaring as loud as their sigil. His mind attempts the same now, out of some long forgotten survival instinct, but he pulls himself back. He can’t go away, not when Sansa is in danger. If she has to sit through this farce, he’ll stand by for every horrible minute of it. 

“Come, brother, sit with us. We might as well get to know Sansa, Joff is quite enamored with our little dove,” she stage-whispers, like she’s confessing some great secret. It takes everything in him to not snap at his sister, his twin, who he once understood better than anyone, who he still can read better than any other person, perhaps besides his wife, but can’t  _ understand,  _ not anymore. 

“I couldn’t abandon my post, Your Grace,” he tries, but her smile gets toothy and sharp. 

“I insist.”

He pulls out a chair, noting that there are three chairs, and wonders how difficult it was for her to get him assigned to her. Not very, he’d imagine. 

“Perhaps it’s too soon to speak of, but I hope we’ll be family,” Cersei coos, and reaches out to grab Sansa’s hand lightly. His teeth clench. “I thought, how nice would it be to have a little family meal? Everyone is so busy, of course, so it’s just us, but all the better, no? So much more cozy.” 

Jaime pours himself a goblet of water, grateful that his duty allows him an excuse to abstain from the wine. He lost his taste for it years ago. Cersei clearly has not. 

**_s a n s a:_ **

She can’t think of a single reason for Cersei to have singled out her brother to be present for this conversation. Sansa only knows what Jaime’s told her, and what she remembers of the Queen in front of her. The rumors had always been prevalent in their past life, always surrounding them. But no matter how hard she tries, Sansa can’t remember ever seeing Jaime actually interact with his twin prior to them ending their... _ relationship _ . 

There’s a reason he’s here though. Cersei doesn’t do things just to do them, and usually there’s some form of logic behind it. Jaime’s become a chess piece that she’s moving—or perhaps she’s the chess piece, Sansa isn’t entirely sure just yet—to suit a bigger purpose. 

It isn’t about them, not yet, she thinks. This feels too much like a charade, too much like they’re under watchful eyes for it to solely be a trap. She wishes for a way to get her husband out of this—for him to be called away for something much worthier of his time. He doesn’t need to be here for this, he doesn’t need to watch his sister—his former lover—start to subtly interrogate his wife. 

For a brief moment she wishes Tyrion was here with them. Sansa can picture her own former husband turned brother with a goblet of wine, asking Cersei what the entire point of the charade is, and to get on with it. 

Sansa doesn’t get that luxury. Instead she has to watch Cersei’s game of cat and mouse as she exerts her power over Jaime to effectively get what she wants. What that is exactly, remains to be seen. 

Briefly she busies herself by looking around the grand room, as any young girl new to the grandeur of the Red Keep would. The entire time her focus is truly on the two Lannisters, and she waits for some kind of signal. 

The first test comes and Sansa knows there’s only one answer. To imply that she has no interest in marrying the future king, to reject him when truly it is a decision that must come down from her father in all appearances spells danger. But even the thought of referring to Joffrey as her one true love tastes like ash in her mouth. 

So she smiles when the Queen takes her hand, and ducks her chin as if she’s embarrassed. “Nothing would make me happier, Your Grace.” 

And it’s not a lie. They are family, and she intends to renew that connection in this life as well. 

Just not to the Lannister relation that Cersei has in mind. 

“Of course. It is very thoughtful, Your Grace.” There’s no one else in the room, and by Cersei’s own admission it doesn’t seem as if anyone else has been invited. She’s suddenly very glad she left the note in her room for Arya relaying where she had been summoned. 

She’s momentarily distracted by the sound of Jaime’s goblet being dragged across the table, and no matter how much she wants to shoot him a look, a secret smile, she refocus her gaze on Cersei, her hand still firmly in her grip. 

**_j a i m e:_ **

Sansa’s rote replies grate on him, and he’s certain he didn’t even feel so sick when facing down a sea of corpses coming to kill him. No, it’s only his sister that wants him dead, and he vows internally to seek out Tyrion after this—whenever he returns from his adventures—to remind him that he is loved. Jaime has lived half a life—not half  _ his _ life, but he has special circumstances—with his sister’s hatred, but he couldn’t imagine having known nothing but it. He thinks instead of sparring with Little Stark, of sparring with Brienne, though sometimes he can’t remember what feints she favored anymore. Even so, he still hears Sansa remark prettily on how dearly she’d love to be family. He covers the quirk of his lips with more water, which he is sucking down as if he could actually get drunk off of it. 

The comment brings him back to himself more fully, and he tries to calm. Sansa is smarter than Cersei by far, more cunning, and more kind. They will win this. And regardless, it won’t be breakfast that breaks them. 

He can see the wrinkles around Cersei’s lips, the one she likes to pretend aren’t there, deepen as her lips thin. No doubt she’s frustrated she can’t get more out of a child who by all rights should be gushing over her liege.  _ You’ll have to work harder than that, sweet sister.  _

“Tell me, Jaime, how did you two meet?” Her eyes cut over to Sansa. “He’s very dedicated to his work,” she confides. “You must tell me your secret. I have the hardest time pulling him away these days. We used to get into all sorts of trouble as children. Inseparable…” Her gaze shifts into middle distance, and Jaime notes her knuckles are white where they grip Sansa’s hand.  _ If she bruises,  _ he thinks,  _ I won’t be the Lannister sans hand in this lifetime.  _

“I was exploring the godswood, Your Grace. I had never seen a heart tree before traveling to Winterfell.”  _ True. _ “I stumbled upon Lady Sansa in her prayers.” Cersei hums around the rim of her goblet. 

“How interesting. Your mother told me you worship the Seven?” Cersei inquires politely, the hint of scorn only noticeable to those who know her. Unfortunately, they both do, only too well. “All the same, piety is so rare in the world these days, I must commend you for it. Perhaps Joffrey can take you to the Sept of Baelor. You might find it somewhat more awe-inspiring than your forest.” 

Jaime chews on a piece of honeydew, tasting like ash in his mouth. Not Joffrey, not  _ there.  _ He wonders if Cersei would still sneer at the Godswood if she knew what Sansa’s gods were capable of.  _ Sansa’s gods rewrote history. Your only god is yourself, sister, and I will see that history forgets you.  _

**_S a n s a:_ **

It’s easy, falling back into this pattern. Perhaps it should frighten her more than it does, her ability to quickly recite exactly what she knows Cersei wants to hear, in a way that doesn’t give away much at all. There may already be differences, after all she doesn’t remember Cersei being much interested in the betrothal the first time around. It had been pushed by King Robert himself—and she certainly had never fallen into such a conversation with the Lannister twins. 

But Cersei’s games are _ exactly  _ as she remembers them, and there’s a sort of cold comfort in that. As long as they maintain appearances they may survive King’s Landing without too much incident. 

The hard part is the  _ why _ . With a free hand Sansa finds a lemon cake on the table, and places it delicately in front of herself. It looks beautiful, as tasty as she remembers the ones that Lady Olenna had once obtained for her. But these treats are from Cersei’s table, and no matter how much she wants to stick a finger into the filling for just a little taste, she doesn’t trust it. She does trust Jaime in handling his sister while she thinks, and tries to look as if she’s not intruding on a conversation by all rights a girl of ten and three should not be privy to. 

_ Sometimes when I try to understand a person’s motives I play a little game. I assume the worst. What’s the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say, and doing what they do? _

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace,” she says softly, eyebrows furrowed as if she’s confused. But she doesn’t think Cersei is listening to her, not anymore. Her fingers are slanted against one another, the bones rolling tightly in Cersei’s grip, and Sansa fights a grimace. 

She’s the pawn, Sansa silently concludes. Everything points to her husband. Cersei is trying to catch him in a lie, she’s trying to get a reaction, though she doubts Cersei knows the depth of what she’s trying to determine. 

Another test. She can hear the disdain almost as clearly as she can see the frustration in the tightness of Cersei’s mouth. They aren’t giving her nearly enough, and she’s using Catelyn Stark to catch them in a lie. Her lady mother has no reason to think otherwise, and can’t even begin to fathom why her eldest daughter has suddenly taken so much comfort from the Godswood. 

“I do, Your Grace. But my father keeps faith with the Old Gods, and I’ve always found comfort in the Godswood.” It’s a half truth, but it seems as if those are the best stories to spin with Cersei. Nothing is a lie precisely, so it cannot ring as false. “It must be very grand.” 

She remembers the Grand Sept. 

Her father had lost his head on its steps. 

She had married Tyrion there. 

“I should be happy to accompany the Prince if he wishes to go.” 

She’d rather take a dive off of Traitor’s Walk, but that will go over about as well as Sansa imagines. 

Her fingers feel like pins and needles, but all she ignores it. She’s lived through worse pain. “Are you hungry, Your Grace?”

**_j a i m e:_ **

He doesn’t know how she manages it, but Sansa looks perfectly at peace, though he knows there is only one place she despises as much as the Great Sept and that’s the Red Keep. He struggles to keep his food down, and only just manages to keep from gagging. 

He’d woken up in Cersei’s bed that morning seventeen years ago. The place he’d killed her only moments ago, and the place he’d died in. He’d made such a commotion that Cersei had thrown him out—thank the Seven—before someone could hear and investigate. He’d killed her, and died in her arms, and then woken up in them, tangled together like it was  _ okay,  _ like it had  _ ever _ been okay. He’d been sick on his way back to his rooms, several times. It had taken months for the nausea to abate, though he still can’t make it past the Dragon Gate without losing time. 

Right now, whatever game she’s playing, she’s not  _ trying _ to be cruel. She has no reason to suspect that the Great Sept has a feature role in every one of Sansa’s nightmares, and a few of his own as well—he sees it engulfed in green more frequently than he cares to admit, even still—and even should she plan for it to meet the same fate, it wouldn’t happen until years from now. But careless cruelty is the only thing Cersei does better than intentional cruelty, and he has a feeling that if she knew how discomfited she had made Sansa, she’d be crowing about it. 

“In fact, I’m  _ famished _ , little dove. Thank you for reminding me. I get so caught up in discussion when I meet new people.” There’s a small smile on Cersei’s lips that he can’t look away from, a smile he doesn’t like at all. She reaches for a covered dish in the center, and pulls the lid off, inhaling deeply. 

The urge to gag returns to him. 

Inside are three tiny roasted birds, each small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. If she wasn’t trying before, this is definitely intentional cruelty. 

“It’s a delicacy from the Reach, one of the few things they do right,” she says, gently picking one up and holding it up with her fingers so neither Jaime nor Sansa has any choice to look. “The Ortolan. A rare songbird caught with a clever trap, then blinded and drowned in a goblet of hippocras. My chefs tell me it’s a good death for a little bird. You eat it whole, bones, beak, and all.” She sighs happily and brings it to her nose, inhaling the scent of the wine marinade. Then she looks up directly at Jaime, and bites down on the tiny bird, with a sickening  _ crunch.  _

“I’ve never heard an ortolan sing, but their song can’t possibly be as sweet. Would you like one, little dove?” 

**_S a n s a:_ **

Sansa sits neatly in her chair, and doesn’t look towards her husband no matter how much she wants to. Her appetite is gone, though she’s not sure she ever had one despite the beautiful display. Cersei’s invitation had sat in her stomach like a rock. And maybe it  _ is _ paranoia that makes her mind whirl with implications. The Queen has no true reason to despise her yet. Her family isn’t quite digging into the very true scandal of her children’s parentage. Ned Stark’s friendship with the still very alive King grants a small level of protection. 

That’s not enough to make Sansa forget that Cersei wields her own power. 

Still a part of her thinks this isn’t as bad as the Queen can make it be with a snap of her fingers. The food must not be laced with anything, not with how her husband is using it to thoroughly distract himself, or keep himself busy.  _ If there was a way for me to get you out of here, I would do it in a moment, Husband.  _ This is a game he should not have to play. And while she does need him, perhaps more than he even knows, to make him suffer this seems unnecessarily cruel. His wife, and the woman he had once spent most of his life loving locked in a battle of wills. 

This is almost certainly about  _ him.  _ Sansa just isn’t sure  _ why.  _

She returns Cersei’s smile with a child-like one of her own. She must not give anything away, or over play any of their cards. It’s hard, and Sansa still forgets that she looks so much younger than she actually is—and certain reactions are required if she’s to come across as innocent. Smiling at the beautiful Queen, looking happy if not excited to be dining with her. It’s the last thing she wants, but she can’t give Cersei any reason to suspect anything to the contrary. 

Especially if her gut is right, and this first test has almost everything to do with Ser Jaime Lannister’s attentions. 

Her stomach flips, but other than that there’s no outward reaction to the small bird Cersei wields like a trophy. Is this what is supposed to be their downfall? Her reaction to a tiny bird? 

Sansa wants to laugh. It’s so much more than that, it always is with Cersei Lannister. She has lived through King’s Landing once before. She has lived through Petyr Baelish. She has survived Ramsay Bolton. She has lived through the Long Night. 

This is the woman who killed her ultimately. And it’s that thought which prevents Sansa from taking one of the birds she’s been offered and taking a matching bite if only to show Cersei she can’t be intimidated. 

So she forces herself to drop her gaze to her lap, to blink first in a way that will be read as innocent surrender. This is the long game—winning the first battle with Cersei won’t bring them anything but more trouble. 

“No thank you, Your Grace. I couldn’t,” she speaks softly. 

**_j a i m e:_ **

His repulsion is a physical sensation, and he has to resist the urge to close his eyes in defeat. This one act seems somehow incredibly more monstrous than all the horrors she wrought in his past life, more premeditated, more sinister…

_ More evil than throwing a young boy out of a window?  _

One way or another, he is responsible for making Cersei what she is, just as he was in their last life. True, there are other mitigating factors—Robert’s violence and infidelity, their father’s disinterest, whatever irreparable damage their mother’s death wrought… 

And yet still, he feels the weight of her actions as if they truly are one half of each other’s whole. Had he not indulged her as children, perhaps he wouldn’t have been made Kingsguard, perhaps he’d never have been blackened with the tar of the name  _ kingslayer.  _ Maybe Cersei would never have cultivated a taste for the flesh of her family, there would be no Joffrey, no war of succession...

Then again, if he hadn’t killed Aerys, perhaps King’s Landing would be little more than a crater. 

It’s a useless exercise, and it does nothing to ease his trepidation. He cannot save Cersei, not from herself. There is only Sansa, their family, and the true war that awaits them. 

There’s another grotesque crunch, and Cersei hums happily. It’s hard to tell whether she chose the food to match her new nickname for Sansa, or whether Sansa’s new nickname was derived directly out of Cersei’s desire to shred the girl between her very teeth. He’s not sure which is worse, frankly. 

“Enough, Cersei. You know I despise those damnable little birds—” He finally says, pushing his chair away from the table. Her eyes flash, and she slowly lowers the hand holding what is left of the poor bird. 

“You forget yourself,  _ ser. _ ” 

It has been this way since he spurned her advances after her wedding all those years ago. He’s not sure which of them first insisted on the distance of her formal title, but it had become a point of contention for them both. He didn’t want the closeness or familiarity of her name, and strove to remind her of what she had to lose, but the title was also everything that made her dangerous, a symbol of all of the power she has cultivated in both this life and the last. She wanted his affection, his adoration, his  _ worship, _ but she also refused to admit she still wanted anything to do with him, would never bow so low as to admit she  _ missed  _ him, and would never settle for anything less than his entire wholehearted devotion. 

It has been a dangerous impasse. 

“My apologies,  _ your Grace, _ ” he says working not to clench his teeth. “Might I  _ be so bold _ as to request a desist in the eating of ortolans? I am not allowed to leave my post, and I would hate to dishonor us both by losing all the melon I consumed this morning, and on such a fine repast as that which you have had prepared to honor your guest.” 

It’s not smart, and he can tell by the way her knuckles go white and her eyes flinty, that he will pay one way or another. She snaps her teeth down on the last of the bird, and his eyes flicker away, unable to watch. They land on his wife, and just as quickly travel elsewhere. He can’t look at her, not now. Not knowing that he had a hand in creating this monster, that he shares her blood, shared the womb with her—

“Perhaps the little bird sung out of turn,” Cersei muses, her voice musical and all the more chilling for it. “Perhaps,” she says, eyes traveling from her twin to Sansa, though it’s clear she’s talking to him. Warning him. “–little songbirds should be careful not to speak out of turn, and not to fly where there are more dangerous creatures waiting to strike.” 

**_s a n s a:_ **

Her polite refusal goes unacknowledged, and the feeling that settles in her stomach is not dissimilar to what it would have been during her first years in King’s Landing. Though there is an added benefit to being left alone in plain sight, rather than seeking solace in the Godswood. This is a show, a demonstration of power that stings despite the fact that it’s not nearly the amount the Queen had had in their previous lives.

Sansa sits quietly, as if she can’t see the tension between the two siblings, the former lovers, and her fork delicately pushes around the pieces of fruit on her plate. She takes small bites, as if the words can’t be heard – as if they’re far above her head. Her appetite is long gone, ortolans or otherwise, but she must continue on. She  _ must.  _ It becomes a small mantra in the back of her mind, a reminder that for as much as Petyr Baelish had once been right to push her in action rather than quiet observance, her husband is right too. She and Arya had waited for the right time, had created the opportune moment to expose Littlefinger in Winterfell. This will be no different. I’s for the best that the Queen remain ignorant of her involvement of playing the great game, though it doesn’t appear as if that will be too difficult to maneuver.

Jaime’s been playing for nearly two decades now, and his sister seems none the wiser.

They were not meant to do this – hadn’t they earned a life free of games in an independent North?

Is an independent North still a possibility? Her father will not betray the King, and their goal of avoiding the War of the Five Kings – of uniting families rather than pitting them against one another will remove the catalysts that ultimately named two of her brothers as King in the North.

Cersei’s threat – it  _ is  _ a threat, though certainly not her cleverest – pulls Sansa from her thoughts, and she forces her teeth to bite off a piece the fruit speared by her fork. Little bird, little  _ dove _ , even without the less than subtle look placed her way the message is heard.  _ Don’t let her needle you _ , she silently pleads to her husband, unable to catch his gaze without causing more suspicion. It’s a glance into the intimate relationship between the pair and it’s enough to show perhaps a little fissure in what used to be the Queen’s competence.

She’s not fool enough to doubt that Cersei can still pull strings, that  _ accidents _ can occur, but it’s a bold threat to make against the daughter of a Lord Paramount who still lives and breathes- and walks these very halls, as does the King.

Whatever had happened between the twins upon Jaime’s own arrival back in time has festered, Sansa thinks. And has manifested into...

This.

Is it enough to use to their own advantage? Can the Queen be goaded into making enough little mistakes that will provide them that last proverbial nail to seal her coffin?

Any hesitation about condemning one for crimes they have not yet committed disappears as Sansa quickly looks away from the Queen and back to her own plate. Her duty is to protect her family – _ all  _ of her family – her home, and its people _. _

Cersei Lannister remains a threat to all of them. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no regret. Would she have preferred the two of them to stay North? To let the others deal with Cersei and fight over the Throne? Absolutely. But she couldn’t lose him either, not if there was something she could’ve done.
> 
> She supposes there was, but it didn’t make much of a difference in the end.
> 
> Except—
> 
> “We’re still here, Jaime. She didn’t poison that.” He can’t see her smile, so she rocks forward up onto her toes to bury her face against the nook of his neck so he can feel it.
> 
> ***
> 
> Jaime and Sansa process and plan.

**_S a n s a:_ **

When she can finally leave Cersei’s terrace, Sansa does so as quickly and gracefully as she can manage. She doesn’t look back, just gives the Queen an almost demure smile before she starts to make her way back to the Hand’s Tower. She wants to find Jaime, she wants to make sure he gets to leave the terrace but in this she has no power. He is a member of the Kingsguard, and he has sworn duties. 

Sansa wants Jaime Lannister, her husband, not the knight of the Kingsguard. But in this moment his current position comes first. Logically she knows this, they have roles to play and that doesn’t change simply because she wants to make sure he’s okay. That he knows that  _ she’s  _ okay. That they can do this. 

It was their first test, and even with the twists and turns of Cersei’s fishing expedition, they did well. 

But if the Queen is already onto them, she’s having them watched. They need to stick to their routine and not do anything to give Cersei more reason to be suspicious. Running to where she knows Jaime’s apartments are will do nothing but cause trouble if she’s seen by the wrong person. 

Only—she doesn’t necessarily have to be seen. Arya had found him through the tunnels. The entrance is just behind the tapestry. There’s no way of knowing whether or not Jaime will head there, but she has to try. 

She returns to her rooms just so that her father’s guards see. And while she’s there, Sansa thinks to grab the small dagger she had been gifted with for practice to hide between the folds of her skirt. She isn’t Arya, she’s not as stealthy, not as ready to go for the fight. But if the tunnels are there, odds are that they aren’t the only ones who know about it. 

And she’d promised she’d try. Try to take it seriously, try and keep herself protected in the event she found herself cornered in a dark alleyway. 

Sansa slips from her room when she’s sure the guard has moved on, and quickly darts behind the tapestry Arya had described when no one is looking. The tunnel is dark, a little damp, and she wishes she had brought a candle with her, although that would have brought more attention to herself had she been caught. 

It’s eerily quiet, and she can hear her breath as she walks forward in what she hopes is the right direction. Has anyone ever got lost down here? Are there twists and turns that lead to other places in the Red Keep? 

It would have been nice to know before. Maybe she could have left earlier. With the Hound. Or on her own. Anyone but Littlefinger. 

The footsteps coming her way cause she’s chest to constrict, and her hand tightens around the handle of the blade that’s hidden. It’s only when he’s closer, when she can decipher the stride, sees the silhouette of him, that she blows out a breath Sansa doesn’t realize she had been holding, and the dagger clatters to the floor as she hurries to him. 

Her arms wrap around Jaime before she can help herself, offering him all the comfort she couldn’t afford to give him on the terrace. “Are you alright?”

**_j a i m e:_ **

They both watch as Sansa sweeps around the corner, her elegant, though demure, gown swishing behind her. Cersei’s nails tap against the glass of her wine goblet, already full and empty twice over since breakfast began. Jaime hasn’t tasted alcohol since the morning after his first day in this life. 

“A pretty thing. This city will crush her.”  _ I will crush her,  _ he hears. 

“She’s a child, your Grace,” he replies. He’s not sure how he means it.  _ She’s nothing to me, just a child. Don’t hurt her, she’s only a child. She’s not worth your attention, she’s just a silly child.  _

“Children grow.” 

He says nothing, only looks away. 

“Speak to me with such impudence again, brother, and I’ll have your tongue cut out. Leave me. Send Trant, I can’t stand the sight of you.” He bows and exits the room before she has a chance to change her mind, or find some new way to torture him. 

He needs to go to Sansa, needs to touch her, needs to know she’s protected, that she’s unhurt. He needs to hold onto something to stop his hands from shaking. He’s spent seventeen years in this castle with his sister, and he hasn’t been so affected since the very beginning of them. There is very little, he suspects, that they can do now to keep Sansa safe. Luckily, he suspects the Queen doesn’t actually care about Sansa, doesn’t actually hold a grudge. She doesn’t believe Jaime would ever do something so foolish as fall in love with a thirteen year old girl, who also happens to be the daughter of the man who hates him most in all of Westeros. Honestly, it’s almost flattering how she overestimates him in that respect. 

All Cersei knows is, at the most, someone spied Sansa on his elbow at some point. This was a warning.  _ Touch her, and watch her get torn apart.  _

He finds Trant, sends him on his way, and retreats to his rooms. He knows he’s being watched one way or another, but the further his feet take him from Sansa, the more his hands shake. At least in his chambers, he can scrub his face with cold water, take off his armor. Every time he sheds that abominable white armor, he feels like he’s shedding every crime he’s ever committed, every wrong he is guilty of in this life, and the last. If only Sansa’s gods had sent him back  _ just  _ a little further. He could’ve saved so many. Elia and her babes, Arthur and Lyanna and seven hells, maybe even Rhaegar. He’d tell Ned Stark of the barrels of wildfire, keep Brandon Stark from challenging the king. Why hadn’t they sent him further? Why had they allowed Cersei to keep her crown? 

It’s only after he’s changed that he remembers Arya’s passageway. He knows these passageways are Varys’ territory, knows that relying on them and even using them is foolish at best, but at least Varys will only act when and if it suits him. He has no trouble leaving people to their follies, as long as he knows of them when they’ll come in handy. And this time, Jaime can’t wait. He can’t make the smart move and stay away. He’s fairly certain he’ll shake right out of his bones if he tries. 

He finds the entrance again with ease, and hurries through it probably too quickly for how dark it is. He can smell her only a moment before she launches herself at him, and he pulls her close on instinct. 

_ Is he alright?  _ The idea is almost laughable. “No,” he answers honestly. He’s not sure exactly why this display has shaken him so much. Perhaps his emotions are just running high. This is the first time Sansa’s been in direct danger since she died, after all, and so naturally, the danger comes at the hands of her murderer. He stills see it at night, nearly two decades after the fact. He’ll always see it. Always remember how she’d come south like she’d vowed never to do, for  _ him.  _

Both times. 

“I’m sorry, Sansa, I should’ve said something sooner, she’s—” his hands coast from her cheeks to her neck, shoulders to waist, unable to settle, unable to believe that she’s still whole. He shakes his head. “It’s my fault, I did this, she’s even worse than before, I can’t—”

**_S a n s a:_ **

The breakfast hangs heavily in the air, and Sansa knows later she will need to think back on it. Everything is a lesson, information that can be used, and if anything has been made readily apparent it’s that their changes haven’t only affected the immediate targets. Cersei is the same and different all at once, and for the life of her Sansa can’t figure out  _ why  _ the Queen has decided to show so much of her feelings regarding her brother with a stranger. It must be her age, Sansa thinks. It’s another thing Jaime had been right about in their brief reunion in the Godswood at Winterfell. She’s not seen as a true threat, but a silly little girl. She’s a little bird again in the eyes of the Queen, and it may just be the right role to use until it’s no longer available. 

Jaime though. She remembers how the decision to ride back South after the defeat of the Night King had been for him. She remembers how much he cared for Cersei, and remembers a whispered concern from Tyrion who had been terrified that by walking back into the room there were only two options for his brother for the outcome. 

That time, Tyrion had been right on point with understanding his sister. But Sansa couldn’t let her husband navigate that alone, or get caught in a trap she was sure she would be able to see before it was too late. 

Funnily enough she had, but not before she’d been caught. 

He’ll have what to say about her so readily dropping her weapon, she’s sure. There’s a voice that sounds suspiciously like Arya that’s already scolding her for the mistake, but it  _ is  _ Jaime. Something in her always knows when he’s near, and without his armor hindering her access Sansa can  _ finally  _ collapse against him, and she buried her face against his chest, just where his heart is. 

His pulse is accelerated, she can hear it under her ear, but it beats strongly. He is alive, and they have survived the first test. 

She laughs softly, and it’s muffled by his shirt. It’s an unamused little thing, a release of some of the tension that she’d been holding onto ever since she had been summoned. Sansa must be destined in every life to suffer Cersei’s close scrutiny, no matter how careful they are. She’s no fool though, she can read the message that she’s sure Cersei would write in her blood if it meant getting to Jaime. 

Cersei will use her to hurt her twin if it comes down to it, if she doesn’t get what she wants, or if they make her mad enough. 

“I love you,” she whispers as she pulls away from his chest so that she knows he’ll hear. That nothing about that meeting has swayed her to change course, to add distance between them. She rests one hand on his chest, right where her cheek had been resting, and her other rests on his cheek. The touches are soft, chaste, but imbued with  _ everything  _ she feels for this man. 

She knows he’s not okay. She knows Cersei got under his skin with her deliberate threats. It’s something she and Jaime have always had in common—they will fight, they will do anything to protect the people they love. 

“You don’t have to apologize for her. It’s  _ not _ your fault.” It may be a consequence of a change he’s made, but truly, Sansa doesn’t find the meal to stand out from any of the other conversations with Cersei. And it surely doesn’t compare to Joffrey. After all, there had been no crossbow pointed directly at her. “Shh. She’s not, Jaime. The only difference was that this message was for you instead of me.” She cups his face, and her thumb rubs gently along the sharp angle of his jaw. “We’ll survive this. Trust me.”

She’ll play the game. She’ll do whatever it takes to get the Starks and her husband free of King’s Landing.

Sansa pauses, and gives her a husband a wry smile, a smile that she learned from him, although she’s desperate to make him laugh. 

“I almost ate the damn bird,” she confesses. 

**_j a i m e:_ **

_ She’s here, she’s here, she’s here— _

He wonders if he’ll ever stop repeating those words to himself—a reminder, a mantra, a promise, a whisper of comfort. He closes his eyes, rests his chin on the top of her head—because she’s short enough that he can do that now—and just tries to breathe. Is it always going to be like this? Stolen moments inundated with panic and frantic embraces that are as far from amorous as could be? Every time he lets her out of his reach, he feels like his heart is galloping right out of his chest after her. 

“I love you, too,” he breathes, his words barely audible through the lump in his throat. It’s ridiculous for him to be so overwrought by a simple breakfast, in which Cersei didn’t even utter a single credible threat, let alone throw a goblet or sic one of her fiends on anyone. It was positively tame by her normal standards. So why can’t he breathe?

He leans into her touch, hating himself for needing this from her, when by all rights, he’s the one who should be comforting  _ her.  _

“I made it worse, Sansa, I couldn’t bear to look at her when I first awoke. I had watched her kill you, I had  _ killed her for it,  _ and now she was back, and she wanted to  _ touch _ me, and maybe I should’ve let her, or, or, tapered it off slowly, or something, but I couldn’t stand it, and Gods, it was—” It was a nightmare, is what it was. The only times he could recall her being so angry were when their mother and Joffrey died. Perhaps when Myrcella was sent away, but even so, it hadn’t been so blatantly focused on  _ him.  _ Even just before he left to go North, when she had threatened to kill him that first time, there had been an unnerving calm to it. 

“It was like Joffrey dying all over again, only I was the murderer  _ and _ the dead man.” It had been the height of bizarre, and might’ve been funny if she hadn’t gotten so dangerous so quickly. More than one of the servants who regularly tended to him had gone missing, and he was not unaware of who had chosen their replacements. He had eventually decided the best option was to simply retreat unto himself, limit his interactions with any women, and certainly his sister, and try to fade into the wall whenever they were forced into close contact. And then when she had cooled down enough to grow ice cold in her fury, she did the ignoring for him. 

But this? This brings back those dangerous early days, when his every move was taken either as a reaffirmation of his love or as a personal attack. And he’s gotten Sansa caught in the middle of it. 

He considers her words. Yes, that’s true, he had always had limited exposure to his sister’s mad games last life. He hadn’t been around to see it with Sansa, and Margaery had played enough of her own games that Jaime hadn’t been able to see her as a victim. There were others, of course. Robert, Jon Arryn, Baelish,  _ Ned Stark,  _ but at the time, those had been grown men, threatening to come between he and his love. As far as he had been concerned, Cersei had just been the smartest one of the lot, and it was as she always said,  _ in the game of thrones, you win or you die.  _

It was a rigged game; they had all died in the end. 

But now his sister is playing her game with  _ him.  _ She probably has been, this entire time, only now the stakes are upped. 

“I am not good at games,” he confesses, though he knows his wife is well aware. Then he bursts out laughing. “Of course you did. You’ve always excelled at her games, haven’t you?” It’s not said in a demeaning way. Jaime is well used to keeping company far more intelligent than himself, and he is good at it. He is a useful tool to be moved into place and deployed at will, but he’s hardly known for his good decision making. He respects cleverness and cunning all the more for his lack of it. And his wife is the most clever person he’s ever met. He even thinks she beats out Tyrion. 

“Eating the bird hadn’t even occurred to me as an option. I wasn’t kidding, you know, about vomiting. I truly have always hated those birds.”

**_S a n s a_ ** :

She may have tried her hardest to at least understand the loss her husband had been feeling back in their previous life. No matter what happened between them, Sansa has come to terms with the fact that Jaime Lannister had loved his sister. Truly, deeply loved her for what and who she was. Coming to terms with what that meant, and seeing what had come from it was something she couldn’t necessarily help him with, no matter how much she wanted to. 

And so Sansa holds him, offers him what she can while he takes his time. She remembers her own terror, remembers how all she had had was Shae, and while the woman had done her best, there had been no comfort like this. Sansa  _ knows _ this feeling, the terror and conflicting relief because while something is inevitably coming, for now it is over and there is time to breathe. 

She and Jaime love each other. It’s a naive thought to think that love is enough, that they will simply survive because they love each other. She had loved Jaime when they had gone to find Cersei the first time, and that had done nothing to prevent their deaths. But together, they stand a chance. Together. 

“I should hope so,” she teases softly. “I don’t know if I could manage this without you.” 

The thought is terrifying, debilitating, and so she shoves it far away. There’s no sense in dwelling on it. They are here and they are together. 

And the relief that they had succeeded in their goal that night, that lifetime, is bittersweet. It’s nice to know that her death—their deaths—had not been in vain...but at what cost? How much of himself had Jaime had to destroy in the process? She isn’t sure she could bear to watch his death. “We’re both here now. There’s a reason for all of this. You didn’t make anything worse, my love. Not when the alternative is making the same choices to lead to the same mistakes.”

Selfishly she’s glad. The idea of having the watch the siblings together and play indifference makes her stomach flip. 

“I wasn’t here for the aftermath of the wedding.” Sansa had already apologized for leaving Tyrion like that, but it’s not hard to make the leap that had she stayed, she would have been dead sooner rather than later. “She once told me to love no one but my children. That love is poison, a sweet poison that will kill you all the same.” And there was no one Cersei loved more than Joffrey, except perhaps Myrcella and Tommen. 

If anything was capable of driving her to true insanity, it would be that. She supposes losing Jaime is a slightly less potent version of that, and it adds to the things to be considered when dealing with her. 

Successfully managing to ensure her betrothal to Jaime is going to create waves. 

“It’s not a game, really. Think of it as  _ war.”  _ That is something he has more experience than just about anyone she knows. “I’ve seen you with Jon, with Brienne figuring our strategies. There’s a reason why they listened to you.” 

Excelled? Sansa snorts, and it’s not a delicate, lady like thing. “I survived, Jaime. I had to learn.” It had taken her some time, she had always been a slow learner. “But I did.” 

But his laughter makes her feel better almost  _ instantly _ and suddenly Sansa’s smiling. It’s a genuine one, the kind that had been solely reserved for him in the cold winter. “I wanted to. I don’t know if it would have sat well in my stomach once I left the room, but the thought crossed my mind.” She didn’t want to give Cersei anything, no advantage. “But someone told me it’s better to be underestimated, so I thought flinching first might be in our best interest.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly. He won’t lead either of them to their deaths this time. If he can prevent it, she will never know the pain of watching him die, though he supposes he has as much power over that in this life as he had in the last. His sister has ever been unpredictable, and though he thinks perhaps Sansa is the only one able to see through her, he does wonder if even Sansa can predict every move. No one had foreseen what she had done to the Tyrells. What cards does she have up her sleeve this time? Just how far is she willing to go? 

“Cersei and Joffrey were the easy parts. It was the politicking that had me stumped. I always tried to imagine what improvements you’d make. You were always thinking about how to feed your people. How to keep them safe. What do the people need from their Lady?” His eyes have tried to adjust, but there’s no light to be seen, so he lets his hands guide him, running through over her hair, in the Northern style, down her shoulders then to her hands, following them to where they rest on his skin. He cradles the backs of her palms and shakes his head a little bit. “I never had patience for those kinds of lessons as a boy. Cersei was denied them, while Tyrion lapped them up the way he later lapped up wine. And even if I had, ruling from the Rock was different. Father was untouchable, he didn’t hear petitions or walk amongst his people. He had servants for that. Everything I learned about being a lord I learned from watching you,” he admits quietly. 

“I didn’t know anything about growing grain, or Westeros’ meat supplies, but I did know who caused the most damage in the War of Five Kings. So I tried to… mitigate, I suppose. And hope that nothing back fired.” He shrugs. It all sounds a little more grandiose, when he was flying by the seat of his pants. “Most of it should be credited to Tyrion, in all honesty. I just had to give him the desired outcome, and he would chart our course.” Not Gregor Clegane though. Jaime was responsible for that decision, and him alone. It’s a choice he is proud of. It’s what Elia had deserved long before she got it in his first life. 

His sister’s words about love make him sad, sad for her, sad for himself, and sad for the life he’d once led. It’s bittersweet, because he is still that man, and he will have to live the rest of his life knowing that (and if he’s unlucky, the rest of his next life as well). And yet, he had grown much, even before his death, and even more since. The love that had poisoned them both in their first life, he had fought his way free from. It had killed him ultimately, it’s true, but it wasn’t  _ his _ poison that had killed him. It’s the same now, he feels. What poison was between them took root in his sister alone this time, and it has done its damage. “She was right. It did kill her. I suppose it killed us all. She never knew a love like ours though, wife. I can assure you of that.” And that is how they’ll beat her this time. Let her underestimate their knowledge, their bond, the lengths they will go to to keep each other safe. It will destroy her in this life much as it did in the last. Only this time, Jaime won’t let her have them, too. 

“I think my wars look different from yours.” He knows they do, or rather, they used to. But he knows they are one and the same in truth, as well. Her wars lead to his wars, and his wars fuel her wars. “They listened to me because I lost to the best war general in Westeros. High praise indeed.” But it’s not true, not really. He lost to Robb Stark, but he learned from him too. He learned from his father, and the costs of expediency in war. His father had claimed that killing a dozen men at dinner would save thousands of men in the field, but it hadn’t really, had it?

Unable to help it with the despondency of his thoughts, the calculating bite to them that feels strange even now, Jaime rests his forehead against hers and smiles. “You will know you would’ve eaten the bird, and I will know you would’ve eaten the bird, and we are the only two people whose opinions matter in this,” he vows wryly. 

**_s a n s a:_ **

“And neither do you.”

Neither of them will be alone this time. It doesn’t make up for the past twenty years, though, and Sansa’s not sure if anything ever will. She can’t imagine what it had been like, for her husband to wake up after what they had found in King’s Landing, what had happened to  _ them _ there, to starting over. She had only had to wait a little more than a fortnight to be reunited with him. She was a girl again, a young girl of ten and three, but that’s nothing compared to the near two decades he’s had to live through alone, and had to face in the aftermath of what their choices had brought them.

The easy parts. Now Jaime’s stumped her. She can’t think of a single moment where Cersei has ever been  _ easy _ . Even after they had been married, after they had spent moons as husband and wife, he had run off in the middle of the night for his sister. And she knows it had been to  _ kill _ Cersei, which makes a small difference...But what he’s done now? It can’t be easy. It couldn’t have been easy. And now there’s a noticeable Cersei shaped hole in their marriage, and Sansa doesn’t know what to make of it. “ _ Jaime _ ,” she laughs, despite the fact that she means to be serious, but it’s hard when all she can feel is his hands. Everywhere. “Helping people has never been something you’ve struggled with.”

The fact that King’s Landing is standing, twice over, is proof enough. “It’s the games the great lords and ladies play that cause the wars the rest of the world has to fight, to die for.” It’s summer, winter is some ways away and they’ll be better prepared for it all. They’ll have to either foster a better relationship with the Tyrells, or not allow Highgarden to fall into Cersei’s hands. “You make a fast study.” Her thumb runs across his lower lip, the closest she’ll get to a kiss in this moment, and likely for some time to come. 

She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that most of what she had learned had been in Cersei’s court, or Margaery’s.

“Perhaps I was still with you, even then.”

Sansa likes the sound of that much better. For her, one moment Cersei’s dagger had been at her throat, and in the next she had been waking up in her chambers—her old chambers—back in Winterfell. Lady had been at her feet, her Lady Mother had come running at her screams, but she could still feel the pressure of Cersei Lannister’s hands.

It was as if no time had passed, and even knowing what she does, it’s hard to swallow the idea that to Jaime they’ve been married for nearly twenty years. Longer than she had been alive in either of these lives.

“Part of wisdom comes from asking for help when you need it.” Perhaps the Dragon Queen’s second dragon wouldn’t have been slaughtered, or their fleet ambushed, had she been willing to consider Sansa’s points. “Have a little faith in yourself, my lord husband. I believe in you.”

_ She never knew a love like ours though, wife. _

“No,” Sansa agrees, trying to talk through the sudden lump in her throat that she pretends isn’t there. She had once thought herself an idiot, allowing herself to fall in love with a man who could manipulate her, a man whose history was so intertwined with the very woman she would execute herself if given the opportunity. “It killed her perhaps, but we did what we had to Jaime. I would travel South all over again if I had to.”

There’s no regret. Would she have preferred the two of them to stay North? To let the others deal with Cersei and fight over the Throne? Absolutely. But she couldn’t lose him either, not if there was something she could’ve done.

She supposes there was, but it didn’t make much of a difference in the end.

Except—

“We’re still here, Jaime. She didn’t poison that.” He can’t see her smile, so she rocks forward up onto her toes to bury her face against the nook of his neck so he can feel it.

“They listened to you because you know what we’re up against. You’ve seen more than anyone I know, and can anticipate any enemy you’ve dealt with.”

Perhaps not the dead, but Sansa doubts anyone could have ever truly been prepared for them.

His forehead finds hers, and Sansa’s eyes close as she just takes a moment to enjoy being there, breathing the same air he is. There’s no audience, and they’ve got some time before anyone notices that either of them are missing. “Your opinion is the one that means the most to me. But Jaime, I must ask you something.” And she doesn’t think he’s going to like it.

“If Cersei baits you using me, you must ignore it. No matter what she does. Promise me.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

Her laughter, and the simple ease with which she believes what she says, that he’s never had a problem  _ helping _ people, strikes him through his core. It’s not true, not really. Helping people always seemed to be a monumental task, or one that only occurred when he had no other choice. Helping people usually resulted in some catastrophic change of course in his life. He saved King’s Landing, became eternally ridiculed as a kingslayer. He tried to protect Brienne, lost his hand. 

He went North to fight for the living, and married his wife. 

Not all bad, he supposes. 

In fact, perhaps it’s since his marriage that helping people had become less of a life-changing action and more of a motivation. He supposes the entire reason he’s done everything he has in this life is to  _ help people,  _ at its core. That’s what surviving the coming years means, isn’t it? “I learned from the best,” he says, running his knuckle over her cheekbone. 

The closeness they’re afforded in the darkness feels almost holy, and he wonders how many years they will need to wait before this becomes something that is their right, rather than a stolen guilty pleasure. Even in the darkness, this isn’t safe, but it’s been far too long for him to care. “Always, wife. I’ve carried you with me, always.” They feel like the truest words he’s ever said. 

“You have,” he murmurs quietly. She  _ has _ traveled South all over again, and her life is in just as much danger now as it had been the last time. They are on a fool’s errand, but they’ve neither of them claimed not to be fools. And besides, they’ve had crazier schemes. 

They’re wound so tight they could be mistaken for one silhouette, and yet there’s nothing licentious about it. His love for Cersei had been wrapped so tightly in sex that it’s strange to think love can exist without it, and yet, just having her in his arms is satiation enough, after so long. 

“Flatterer,” he chides, smirking into her hair, but the levity settles once more, and he holds her neck in his hands as their foreheads rest together. He’ll give this woman anything she wants, he’ll move mountains, wait decades for her, and decades more if he has to. Then she makes her request and he snorts. 

“There’s no chance in all seven hells of that happening, my love. Last time Cersei baited me using you, you died. I had to  _ watch. _ ” His thumbs stroke her cheekbones, and he finds the pain at the memory, while still breathtaking, is diminished by the knowledge that she stands here in his arms.  _ Even the Stranger was no match for us, wife.  _ “How about, we agree to do everything in our power to avoid a situation where Cersei has the power to make us face such a choice, hm? I wager we have a fair chance at outmaneuvering her this go-round.”

**_S a n s a:_ **

_ I learned from the best _ her husband says, and Sansa swallows back a snort of laughter. “Tyrion’s always excelled at teaching,” she teases lightly, though there’s truth in that too. She just doesn’t want to linger on the how she learned. Cersei had demonstrated what not to do when it came to earning the love of the small folk – while Lady Margaery, the  _ Queen  _ Margaery had been the opposite. For a moment, she wonders if the Tyrells will make an appearance—though it seems unlikely if there was no opportunity for their goal to be achieved.

Perhaps it’s for the best. She still remembers of hearing of the destruction of the Sept, and everyone who had been in it.

And they’re not merely playing the game this time, they’re  _ changing  _ it. Every choice they make, every step they take to avoid something that came about in their past life is going to create something new.

The ripple scares her, the unknown. She can protect her family, her husband, from known enemies but it’s the unseen that will need to be evaluated, anticipated. Cersei’s ire for her twin will change things in its own way, as will the fact that while the children are still not Baratheons, they are not Jaime’s either.

If only she can evade a betrothal to Joffrey.

Her husband is much better at turning a phrase, Sansa thinks, and she can’t hide the way her eyes start to well up with unshed tears. He had been  _ alone _ , alone with his thoughts and knowledge, and there’s no way to carry the burden for him.

Perhaps she can make it easier for him, now that she’s here too.

Her hands explore every part of him that she can. It’s nothing more than a simple reminder that he’s here, and that he’s well. Every time she finds the fingers of his right hand Sansa can’t help but investigate, can’t help but try and commit every new piece of him to memory. But there’s more than just that, he’s different too. She’s not too sure yet, and while part of him seems like he’s just less tired, less battle-worn, there’s something else too.

“I go where you go, husband.”

Sansa laughs, a natural laugh that feels lighter than she can ever remember it being. “As is my right as wife. And as it’s one of the only rights I’ll get to take for quite some time, I’m afraid you’ll have to just indulge me.”

This is why they’ll survive, she’s sure of it. They’re together, they’re stronger together, and while she may be stronger within the walls of Winterfell, she’s stronger with Jaime too. No one should be capable of making her feel like this, especially after leaving Cersei’s chambers, but somehow this man is able to.

Until he  _ snorts  _ in a way that just spells his disagreement, and Sansa’s eyes flash in her own stubbornness. She doesn’t pull away, can’t bring herself to when she doesn’t know when the next moment that they can steal will be, but her hands reach to wrap around his wrists as he all but holds her face. “ _ Jaime _ .”

If he reacts, if  _ they _ react, they give Cersei something to hold against them. She’s not sure just trying to avoid a situation that Cersei crafts is enough of a guarantee.

“You’re distracting me,” she finally grumbles, too focused on the feel of his thumb to point out the very obvious.

What happens when they’re stuck in such a situation anyway?

“We need to get out of King’s Landing.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

He hadn’t realized how much he misses being  _ touched _ until he’s got Sansa’s hands mapping him. It’s been  _ years _ since someone touched him so freely, and with such affection. Her fingers dip between the fingers of his right hand, and his lips quirk. “It’s strange isn’t it? It took me years to become fully reacquainted with it. My sword wielding skills were a fright. I’m fairly certain Selmy thought I’d had a fit of apoplexy in my sleep,” he murmurs into her hair, feeling  _ content _ for the first time since he’d woken up all those years ago. “This must be the first time this hand has ever touched your hair.” It’d probably come across as suave if not for the smirk she can’t see, but undoubtedly intuits. 

He hums in response to her vow, but it makes him think.  _ Can  _ she go where he goes? In this life, he is still a member of the Kingsguard, still honor-bound to protect the king and his royal family. He’s not fool enough to think that it will remain safe for Sansa to stay in King’s Landing beside him, nor does he believe they can achieve what they mean to achieve from here. But he’s loathe to bring more bad tidings into this moment, and simply tugs her closer, though there’s hardly anywhere for her to go. 

“Distraction is the point, love.” And he doesn’t want to speak of his sister and her games anymore, or all the ways those games will likely lead to their deaths,  _ again.  _

“We do, and we can’t,” he says, voice flattening with his distaste. “There’s too much we’ve yet to do, and for now, King’s Landing is the only place we can do it from. But soon, Sansa, I promise you. No Stark will be trapped in this city again. We need to plan, and we need a way to talk, safely. Even your training sessions won’t be private enough, I think.” He draws back, reluctantly, knowing his absence has likely already been noted by his sister, and several other peering eyes. He doesn’t have a good solution, and he could ask Tyrion upon his return, scheduled for any day now, but he shudders to think what conclusions his brother will draw if Jaime asks his advice for a good place for clandestine meetings. 

“I can leave notes for you in here?” He suggests, brow furrowed. And to think he once used to be an expert on clandestine assignations in this castle. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

She should argue. It’s the next step, and the response is already on the tip of her tongue. It’s a gut reaction, an involuntary action because in whatever it is they’re going to plan– _ change _ –they must not get caught or fail. There are too many unseen enemies, too many possibilities in front of them, because no matter how much of the future they may know, their actions are bound to have consequences that, if all goes as planned, will change the path they had once walked considerably.

Distraction is the last thing they need, and her husband had never failed in that regard to begin with.

Her mind wanders back to breakfast, to Jaime’s immediate reaction to the birds on display while Cersei toyed with both her words and her food, and any argument to the contrary dies before it can fall past her lips. They can discuss it later, when it isn’t so new.

It does beg the question—what had been whispered to Cersei about lessons of swordplay for children to bring that bold of a threat?

A question for another time, she thinks, and nods when Jaime speaks next. He’s right, of course he is, and she believes him. She has to. Her father will ride out of King’s Landing with his head firmly attached to his shoulder, and Arya won’t have to flee. Even if they’re stuck in the capital now, it is only temporary.

“I don’t think there is anywhere remotely near these walls anymore that can be called private.” Cersei’s already made mention of not only the lessons, but of the Godswood. Even these tunnels can hardly be called private when they don’t even know the full extent of who has access to them.

Sansa blows out a small breath, and her eyebrows furrow as she thinks, staring pointedly at something beyond her husband’s shoulder. She doesn’t want to involve anyone else in this just yet, not until they have a true plan, and even then, the idea of risking any of the people they care about causes her stomach to flip uncomfortably. That leaves the pair of them alone, and coin isn’t enough to buy loyalty in a city where everyone is willing to double prices in exchange for information.

“A word to meet here?” It can be nothing incriminating, nothing of any real substance written in either of their hands in the event it falls into the wrong hands before the fire.

“What about a sign? I could perform particularly poorly in one of the training sessions.”

Perhaps her sister would jape about that being  _ every  _ lesson, Sansa thinks and smiles.

**_a s p i d e r:_ **

In the dark, a spider sits content in its web, swallowed up by the shadows, unheard and unseen. 

“As much faith as I have in your growing skills, wife, it will be just as difficult to meet up to spar unannounced as it will be to meet for other things.” Clandestine rendez-vous can only be permitted to a certain extent and toward a certain goal. More information is needed. 

There is silence, and a hum, the slightest susurrus of skin on skin, or perhaps hair…? He daren’t leave his spot safe in his web to move closer, but any fears he might have are quickly assuaged. 

“...perhaps ribbon in your hair?” The two settle an agreement of ribbons and colors and meanings, and depart, leaving the spider to spin his web in the dark.

Hmm. Much to consider. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what you have read, please subscribe to the series!


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